She froze. The pain bloomed and faded, but its shadow lingered. It wasn’t ordinary—wasn’t gas, indigestion, or one of those harmless aches that come with age. No. It felt old. Familiar. Her breath quickened. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach. Not again, she thought. Please—not again.
That same place. That same intensity. Tula blinked against the swell of panic rising in her chest. It had been years since the tumor. Years since doctors said “Stage II” with too much softness in their voice. She had fought, endured, survived. But survival had cost her more than she could ever reclaim.